Part 56

"I haven't yet had the pleasure of kicking your friends over Mont Revard," said Aristide.

"Look here, mon petit, this has got to finish," cried the Count.

"Parfaitement. I should like nothing better than to finish. But let us finish like well-bred people," said Aristide suavely. "We don't want the whole Casino as witnesses. You'll find a chair over there. Bring it up."

He was enjoying himself immensely. The Count glared at him, turned and banged a chair over by the side of the table.

"Why do you insult me like this?"

"Because," said Aristide, "I've talked by telephone this evening with my good friend Monsieur Lepine, Prefect of Police of Paris."

"You lie," said the Count.

"Vous verrez. In the meantime, perhaps we might have a little conversation. Will you have a whisky and soda? It is one of my English habits."

"No," said the Count emphatically.

"You permit me then?" He drank a great draught. "You are wrong. It helps to cool one's temper. Eh bien, let us talk."

He talked. He put before the Count the situation of the beautiful Miss Errington. He conducted the scene like the friend of the family whose astuteness he had admired as a boy in the melodramas that found their way to Marseilles.

"Look," said he, at last, having vainly offered from one hundred to eight hundred pounds for poor Betty Errington's compromising letters. "Look----" He drew the cheque from his note-case. "Here are twenty-five thousand francs. The signature is that of the charming Madame Errington herself. The letters, and a little signed word, just a little word. 'Mademoiselle, I am a chevalier d'industrie. I have a wife and five children. I am not worthy of you. I give you back your promise.' Just that. And twenty-five thousand francs, mon ami."

"Never in life!" exclaimed the Count rising. "You continue to insult me."

Aristide for the first time abandoned his lazy and insolent attitude and jumped to his feet.

"And I'll continue to insult you, canaille that you are, all through that room," he cried, with a swift-flung gesture towards the brilliant doorway. "You are dealing with Aristide Pujol. Will you never understand? The letters and a confession for twenty-five thousand francs."

"Never in life," said the Count, and he moved swiftly away.

Aristide caught him by the collar as he stood on the covered terrace, a foot or two from the threshold of the gaming-room.

"I swear to you, I'll make a scandal that you won't survive."

The Count stopped and pushed Aristide's hand away.

"I admit nothing," said he. "But you are a gambler and so am I. I will play you for those documents against twenty-five thousand francs."

"Eh?" said Aristide, staggered for the moment.

The Comte de Lussigny repeated his proposition.

"Bon," said Aristide. "Trés bon. C'est entendu. C'est fait."

If Beelzebub had arisen and offered to play beggar-my-neighbour for his soul, Aristide would have agreed; especially after the large whisky and soda and the Mumm Cordon Rouge and the Napoleon brandy which Eugene Miller had insisted on his drinking at dinner.

"I have a large room at the hotel," said he.

"I will join you," said the Count. "Monsieur," he took off his hat very politely. "Go first. I will be there in three minutes."

Aristide trod on air during the two minutes' walk to the Hôtel de l'Europe. At the bureau he ordered a couple of packs of cards and a supply of drinks and went to his palatial room on the ground floor. In a few moments the Comte de Lussigny appeared. Aristide offered him a two francs corona which was ceremoniously accepted. Then he tore the wrapping off one of the packs of cards and shuffled.

"Monsieur," said he, still shuffling. "I should like to deal two hands at ecarté. It signifies nothing. It is an experiment. Will you cut?"